


Lost in Legends

by Other_Pens



Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fantasy, Intrigue, Magic, Multi, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13378122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Other_Pens/pseuds/Other_Pens
Summary: In the rich kingdom of Londonia, there is an aging king, a willful princess, a missing prince, and much, much more...





	1. The Lost Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Fantasy spin-off using London Life characters, transported from their Regency lives to the perilous and breath-taking world of Londonia and the lands beyond...where magic and mundane, and good and evil, will each struggle for power.

  


"And does no one know why the king has assembled all of his courtiers?"

  
"Perhaps there is some fresh news of the prince!"  
  
A lord with a luxuriant beard let out a snort.  
  
"There have only been useless rumours for the past year, and the king has long since stopped entertaining gossips' theories. I would wager _we_ know more of the prince than even his own father will let himself."  
  
"Well it is time something happened! Court has been stagnant--neither in mourning nor out of it, and weary of wondering if the heir to the throne be dead or alive!"  
  
"Cannot the princess inherit?"  
  
"Nay--whether he lives or not, the crown would never belong to her. It is not the way of things."  
  
"And look where the way of things has brought us--a decrepit old man on the throne, a son disappeared, and a daughter deemed unfit to succeed him by virtue of her being female."  
  
"It is hardly the time to criticize our king, or our traditions!"  
  
"Will it be time when the kingdom has fallen to ruin and war over an uncertain succession? Have you forgotten what became of the Duchy of Leighton, when that man could not provide himself with an heir?"  
  
A shudder rippled through the knot of assembled courtiers. The fate of Nicholas, Duke of Leighton, was better not spoken of, thought it loomed large in every listener's mind at that moment.  
  
"The princess! Make way!" came the sudden cry across the cavernous stone chamber.  
  
The heavy wooden doors at the far end of the throne room were drawn open with a ponderous creaking sound, and the gathered noblemen parted to form a path for the young woman that appeared, flanked by her two ladies-in-waiting, each half a step behind their royal mistress.  
  
Clad in the unadorned white of mourning which was the custom of their lands, her head bare of any crown, and all jewels absent but for the gold signet ring which had been her mother's worn on the smallest finger of her left hand, the princess made a tragic but beautiful figure as she strode to the dais, looking neither left nor right as the courtiers bowed at her passing.  
  
"She mourns--you see, he must be dead," whispered one lord to his fellow, almost gloating over his deduction.  
  
"She has worn it since the day he disappeared, you fool," hissed back another.  
  
"I wonder if it has invited bad luck. Perhaps he'd've returned by now if she'd worn another colour."  
  
"Hush you superstitious old sot!"  
  
The princess took her seat to one side of the great throne, her brother's ceremonial chair mirroring hers having been removed half a year ago, as looking upon it only served to cause pain to all who considered it.  
  
She folded her hands in her lap and fixed her eyes somewhere above the heads of the assembled crowd, her expression aloof and unmoving as her ladies retreated to hover nearby.  
  
Several moments passed before a fanfare sounded, heralding the entrance of the king from his own private chambers at the other end of the throne room.  
  
All who were seated rose as the greying king strode into the room, no hint of any weakness in his bearing as he took his place above them all on the dais, and only those closest to him--and they were few--even able to guess at what it cost him. All bowed as one, including the princess, who made a graceful obeisance to her father before the old man sat himself upon his throne and she returned to her own seat, and the whole court subsided into an attitude of hushed expectancy.  
  
"I am sure, my lords," began the king, "that you have no doubt much discussed the most pressing matter of our kingdom among yourselves--that of my absent son and heir. While we continue to hope for the safe return of our crown prince, we can no longer sit idle while the kingdom grows weak with uncertainty. And as I make no claim of immortality for myself, it is now my duty to provide an alternative to usher in the next generation of power, in the royal bloodline of my forefathers."  
  
A whisper rippled about the room--was the king to marry again, perhaps?  
  
"I have considered taking a new queen, but I could not be guaranteed a son by any woman, and it would take some time for any infant to grow into manhood--time I may not have," the king continued, as if he had anticipated their curiosity. "And, should the crown prince be found alive, I would not wish to muddy the waters of his claim with any younger brother made king before him. And so it is upon the advice of my council that steps should be taken to ensure that there will be a regency until such time as my own son may return to rule, or when all hope of his life may be ended and another crowned--definitively crowned--in his place."  
  
At this there was renewed interest in the princess, but the shift of her own gaze from the distant wall to the figure of her father beside her as he spoke made many believe that what the king now said might be as much of a surprise to the lady as to the rest of them.  
  
"Some weeks ago, missives were sent in secret to the noblest houses in all the known lands, bidding them that wish to do so to send a younger son--one which has no claim to their own throne."  
  
A new burst of murmurings--a foreigner to be regent over them all, when the king should die and if the prince be not yet found?  
  
The king held up his hand and silence fell once more, the old man's glare picking out in particular those who had given loudest vent to their objection, making certain to note their names, for later.  
  
"We shall entertain these princes from every willing allied nation," he said. "And by the next new moon, one shall be chosen to be educated in our laws and customs, to act as regent. But he shall not act alone, and nor shall our kingdom be given over to a stranger's hands for nothing. My council will be at his disposal...and my daughter shall wed him, to aid his rule, and to ensure that their own heir maintains the royal bloodline of our proud people, when my son's life may be presumed finished by his old age, and his nephew may then safely take the throne in the years to come."  
  
There came fresh shock at this--and on no face was it more obvious than that of the princess, who had gone as pale as her gown.  
  
"No!" came a single voice from the fringes of the room, and all eyes turned to it--none more sharply than his majesty's. A young courtier stood trembling, but with a heated flare of outrage in his eyes as he gazed boldly back at his king. "My liege," he said, "consider..."  
  
"I have considered _all_ , my lord," snapped the king. "Your father served me faithfully for many years, boy, and stood beside me in battle, too; but do not think for one moment that his loyalty has bought you the freedom to speak to me as you choose, or to dictate to me what is to be done for the good of _my_ kingdom. There shall be no prince in this land but a prince of this family, and only a prince of another land is fit to join it."  
  
The king sat carefully back on his throne, the force of this speech leaving him a little out of breath. Now that the news had begun to sink in, there were the beginnings of nods from some of the courtiers. Time did not stand still, and it was only a regency, after all. And ultimately the son of the princess would have no different degree of blood than would the son of the crown prince, had he wed a foreign princess, too. (Which had always been the presumed likelihood, as such things went.)  
  
"But as you are so eager to speak in the defence of this kingdom you love so well..." said the king to the lord, with an inflection of biting sarcasm which had made lesser men flinch. "I have an appointment in mind for you...we seek a trading alliance with the Fairmont lands across the sea. You shall be our ambassador, there."  
  
A muscle twitched in the younger man's jaw, but he said nothing, still glaring up at the king.  
  
"I regret," the king went on, "that you must miss the coming festivities as we select a regent from our princely guests. Much as we think on our lost prince with sorrow, we must now look to the inevitable future with hope. I have a ship which will depart our capital in three days' time, and on it you shall go."  
  
Now it was the princess who stirred, as if awakened from a terrible dream, to leave her chair and kneel beside her father's throne, while an older man appeared beside the young courtier, yanking him back into the crowd while his burning gaze remained fixed upon the dais.  
  
"...Your majesty...father--can there be no hope?" she said to him in a low tone of desperate pleading, half-numbed with shock and cold dread. "...no word of my brother?"  
  
"None. You would have married about this time, whether he were here or not," he reminded her, matching his volume to hers. "There is a greater weight of duty upon your shoulders, now, but you were always meant to serve a purpose to your family."  
  
Helplessly, her gaze slid back to the assembled crowd, now searching for the figure which had been pulled from sight and lost among the sea of courtiers.  
  
The king sighed, and grudgingly laid his hand over hers where she clasped the arm of his throne with white knuckles.  
  
"He would never have been worthy of you, Frederica," he said. "Those Haverleigh lords have served our royal line for generations...but a union with a vassal house is unthinkable."  
  
The princess snatched her hand back from beneath his, her green eyes ablaze with silent fury and shining with the tears she could never allow herself to shed.  
  
King Arthur at once grew cold again at her defiance, and waved her away with a flick of his wrist.  
  
"You have a week until our guests begin to arrive," he told her. "And you had best resign yourself with grace and dignity. The continuance of unrivalled power in this nation is paramount, and we must act to preserve the legacy of our royal family for the years to come."  
  
Frederica rose and turned to depart, only to have her father reach out and catch hold of her elbow with a vice-like grip, surprisingly strong for a man of his age.  
  
"I shall not live forever, Frederica," he hissed at her.  
  
"...as you have said, Majesty," she replied icily. "I must look to that inevitable future with hope."  
  
Without another word or look addressed to anyone, Princess Frederica then departed as she had come, the courtiers making way for her as she left the throne room, managing to make it beyond the doors and partway down the outer passage before she heard them shut behind her and felt the strength leave her legs.  
  
"Princess!" cried one of her ladies, struggling to support her as she sank to the flagstones. "Fetch help!" she demanded of a guard at the door, who seemed uncertain whether to stay or go.  
  
"...take my arm," said a low, gentle voice, and Frederica felt her pulse thunder to a crescendo as she looked up into the stricken but sadly smiling countenance of Lord George. "...please."  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"I dare not," she murmured as she attempted to stand. "George, _please_...do not give my father any more reason to punish you."  
  
"Has he not done enough?" scoffed George, with a scornful glance back at the closed doors.  
  
"Hush!" whispered Frederica, then, in a louder voice. "I thank you--I was merely overcome by the crowd of the king's audience. My ladies can see me back to my quarters."  
  
"How can I see you again?" George asked urgently, before she could flee.  
  
"...you know the place," said she, after a breathless pause, though she scarcely turned her head over her shoulder to address him in another whisper. "Midnight tomorrow."  
  
Swallowing hard, he could only nod as he watched the princess be led away by her ladies, the great stone corridors of the castle subsiding into silence once more, broken only by the ghostly echoes of voices and movements unseen, and only distantly heard.


	2. Midnight Meetings

  


The young lord Haverleigh paced nervously in a tight circle at the bottom of the gardens, in a corner nearest the high outer walls where the crown prince had kept his personal plots—now left to sprawl themselves in wild and unchecked growth. There was a glasshouse, too, nearby; but at this turn in the path there grew a willow, whose boughs hung low enough to shield the place from view. Even the faint gleam of moonlight took on a green cast beneath the tree, and all light and shadow took on an eerie coolness where his eyes could adjust to the darkness.  
  
The sound soft footfalls upon the path then drew nearer, and he instinctively put a hand to the blade he wore at his belt, concealed beneath the fall of his cloak. He stilled to see the dark-hooded figure that swept aside the hanging screen of willow, a familiar gold band glowing against her pale hand.  
  
His heart leapt within his chest as she raised her hands to lower her hood, her eyes and hair seeming darker against the shades of night. But when had he seen her thus? Daylight and the blaze of torch or candle had always illuminated Frederica, whenever he had been in her company…and always someone else, be it a servant or her brother the prince, in view, even if not nearby. Darkness and solitude gave some fresh edge of bittersweet pain to this rendezvous, that he should at last have so precious a moment to spend with her…and that it was likely to be the first and last of its kind.  
  
“…your royal highness,” he greeted her, his voice sounding hollow and not at all like himself, as he bowed to her, courteous to the end.  
  
Frederica could not speak, at first, her lips pressed into a thin line as she regarded him where he stood, all the agony of their prospective parting washing over her again, now that she saw him and knew it to be true by the twist of pain in his own expression.  
  
“…you have come to say farewell?” he said at last, fearing that silence and starlight might drive him to say—or do—something a great deal more dangerous.  
  
“No!” she said quickly. “…and yes,” she added, with greater misery. “…it is impossible for us not to part, for the time being. There are greater matters to consider than ourselves.”  
  
He nodded, though he dropped his gaze to his boots and could not bring himself to look at her, just then. It was only when he saw her hand steal across his, her touch cool and firm, that he glanced up to her earnest face.  
  
“Listen to me, George,” she begged him, and he could only nod, dumbly. “You will go where my father sends you and do as he bids you. Consider your family that must remain here, and that they depend upon the grace of the king for their positions at court—and even their lives. Every passing hour since my brother’s disappearance has drawn his majesty deeper into his own tyranny, and I dare not attempt to guess what he may be capable of, now.”  
  
“And what of you?” he asked, turning his hand beneath hers, his grip almost fevered against her cold fingers.  
  
“…I’m going to find Perry,” she said after a brief silence.  
  
“Find him?” George’s brow furrowed. “You know where he is?”  
  
“No,” she admitted. “…but I will not tarry here and give up as my father has done. He sends scouts and spymasters…but there must be other ways. Any other way.”  
  
“What way?” asked George, his concern mounting as he saw this strange new look of restless panic in Frederica’s glance, like a wounded creature struggling fruitlessly against a trap.  
  
“There are rumours,” she said, lowering her voice even beyond the whispers she had used thus far, forcing him to bend his head to catch her words as she spoke. “…talk of a wise woman—a wayfinding witch, who lives in the heart of the greenwood, in the foothills of the Bowridge Mountains.”  
  
“A witch?” said George. “…but what if they are just stories the common folk tell among themselves?”  
  
“And what if they are not?” countered Frederica.  
  
“Have you ever seen or known magic to be done?”  
  
“I…I have seen and known little, in the life I have led,” admitted the princess softly, flushing with a kind of shame at it. “I have been so carefully educated, you see, but never set foot beyond the walls of even this city, nor really known what life is like for anyone who lives beyond the castle and the great houses of courtiers. But…there is mention made of magic in the histories of many kingdoms, many civilizations which have risen and fallen…not only the magic of common folk and witches, but of noblemen and monarchs.”  
  
Both her hands now found his and she squeezed them gently.  
  
“…were we not both raised to believe in the powers of the gods? And how is that any different?”  
  
He nodded slowly.  
  
"Then you believe magic still exists?" he asked.  
  
"I'll believe in anything that lets me hope."  
  
"Then believe…” he said, raising her hands and hesitating only for a moment before he kissed them. “…believe that I will find my way back to you, wherever I am sent. I would go with you, now…"  
  
“—and risk the lives of all you love as traitors in my father’s eyes!” she exclaimed in horror. “No, I can make my escape unaided—and I have already sent away my ladies, and they may truly say they knew nothing about it. I can only pray my father will be merciful to the ignorant.”  
  
"How shall you be protected?" asked George, still doubtful as to how her safety might be assured.  
  
"I can pass among the people as a simple girl,” insisted Frederica. “My clothing will be humble, my appearance plain. No one will have any reason to meddle with me."  
  
"No reason? Loveliness and solitude is reason enough for some to meddle with a woman,” said George worriedly, letting himself catch the end of a long dark curl against the tips of his fingers for the briefest of moments.  
  
"I shan't be alone,” she assured him. “Sir Felix Sutcliffe has royal assent to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Almack, which will take me most of the way to the greenwood. He will stop a while there, and pray for my brother's safe return. He is a good man and an able fighter."  
  
"I thank the gods for it," sighed George. Much as he had no wish to see Frederica abandoned to the fate her father had planned for her, the alternative seemed to risk more than simply her happiness.  
  
"You must get back,” said Frederica, glancing over her shoulder as if she feared interruption at any moment. “Prepare for your own journey the day after tomorrow and let no one think anything is amiss. My father will suspect you first--but we will travel in opposite directions. I, to the mountains and forests of the east, and you to the western sea."  
  
"I will say the nine prayers nightly that you will be safe," said he. "I dare not ask that I may ever see you again, but if only I could be certain you were safe and happy, I would call myself content."  
  
"Then you will see me again," she promised, with a tremulous smile. "For I should never be happy, otherwise."  
  
Rapt in the enchantment of gazing at her beloved face for every instant he could in these final moments of their parting, George was a little surprised to feel the press of something small, hard, and warm against one palm, and looked down to see that she had removed her signet ring and placed it in his hand.  
  
And in the space between breaths where he had glanced down at it, she was gone, and George stood alone beneath the green shadows of the whispering boughs of the willow once more, lost to his love.


	3. Frederica's Flight

  
  
  


The king spoke little, and the princess said nothing, as they supped together at the long dark table in his majesty's private dining-chamber. Frederica merely toyed with her food, her appetite much diminished of late, though she knew she ought to make a better show of normality, and keep her strength in eating well. But to raise a single bite to her lips made her feel so entirely ill that she knew it would be impossible to even make a pretense of wellness.  
  
At long last, his majesty spoke again, his greying and bushy eyebrows squirming together as he glowered down the length of the table with all its gleaming dishware and lit candles to where his daughter sat, her eyes fixed upon her plate.  
  
"The report is that the _Winged Snake_ made good progress with the outgoing tide," he said.  
  
"Oh?" said Frederica.  
  
"One of my faster ships, bound for the Fairmont lands."  
  
George's ship...which even now was carrying him further and further away across the western sea, to what sort of fate? To languish in noble exile until it pleased the king to call him back...whenever that might be. If ever.  
  
"...I hope they may have fair weather for their journey," said Frederica carefully, though she laid aside her napkin, lest she begin nervously knotting it between her fingers.  
  
"Hmm," grumbled the king, eyeing his daughter suspiciously. Perhaps this break with the young lord was just what she had needed, to realize her place and her duty. It was time she ceased to be a child and went about her true business as a princess--that of a royal alliance by marriage and the continuance of bloodlines by the birth of princely sons. But there was something in the girl's face he had never trusted...her green eyes saw too much, and her tongue was far too sharp at times for his liking. It would take more than simply parting her from that Haverleigh boy to tame her once and for all, but what else could be done? Perhaps the idea of being courted by so many princes from abroad appealed to her feminine need for flattering admiration and attention, after all. That was surely all that had led her to even glance at the lowly lord--he had been the only one to dare speak to her, though she was the princess.  
  
That George Haverleigh had been raised with the royal children from a young age, even sharing tutors with the Crown Prince Peregrine, seemed to escape his majesty's reckoning of what had gone wrong, exactly. What mattered most was that it had been none of _his_ doing, and all the fault of that upstart who had forgotten his place in his own blind willfulness.  
  
"You have dismissed your two ladies in waiting, I hear?" he snapped, just as Frederica reached for her goblet of wine, her mouth having gone dry. She took a sip, willing her hands not to shake before she swallowed and answered.  
  
"I have," she admitted. "Of course I am fond of them, and they have been great companions to me--but they are of noble blood, and both acknowledged beauties in their own right. I know their manners to be pleasing and their company charming. It mattered little to me before, but...if we are to entertain a selection of princes to find my husband and the next regent of this kingdom, I would not wish for any unnecessary distractions to hinder the process."  
  
 _Congratulations, Father...if nothing else, you have taught me how to be a bold and consummate liar. And indispensable trait in politics, I understand._  
  
Knowing what the king thought of women and their petty vanities, Frederica thought the excuse as good as any, and had only to wait all of five seconds before he nodded.  
  
"Well...there is some truth in that," he muttered. "There are some...older women at court who will do to serve you."  
  
"You have my thanks, sire," said the princess shortly, reaching for her wine once more and draining the cup before she stood. "If you will excuse me--I am quite fatigued. And there is much to be made ready."  
  
With a nod from her father, Frederica retreated to her chambers, now eerily quiet and still without the attendance of her ladies, the lower servants quickly scurrying off, knowing they were not meant to be seen at all.  
  
There was much to prepare, indeed. But not for the visiting princes, nor her and her whole kingdom being handed to the winner as a prize. The kingdom should belong to her brother, and Frederica would bend the knee to no other ruler.  
  
\---  
  
It was soon the night before the suitors were to begin arriving at the castle. Frederica had wondered whether she ought to push her luck with the timing of it, but ultimately decided that the confusion and uproar would only be increased by planning her escape and their arrival to occur as closely as possible, and the resulting chaos and her father's need to cleave to his pride would afford her a better chance at not immediately being traced and brought back.  
  
The summer had not yet sunk into its deepest heat, and within the castle the rooms were cool where no fires had been lit, but she still found the clothes she wore to be warmer than she was used to. Deerskin leggings, tucked into tall brown boots--scuffed, the first second-hand thing Frederica had ever touched, let alone worn, though they fit comfortably--along with a dark sweeping skirt of deep brownish-red wool mixed with linen fibers. A plain white shirt, neatly buttoned dark brown jerkin, and a hooded brown cloak and plain riding-gloves left her feeling rather like she was wearing three sets of clothes at once, though the sturdy fabrics and simple construction of the garments gave her greater liberty of movement than she was used to, in her finer gowns.  
  
"I hardly feel like myself at all," she told Sir Felix in a whisper as they slipped down an abandoned passage which would lead from the castle's lower chambers to an escape beyond its defensive walls, where they would find all their things in readiness for their flight.  
  
"You hardly look like yourself, to own the truth, your highness," said the knight, though he spoke with a friendly smile as he glanced back at the young woman who might be any fresh-faced girl with her hair braided back from her face and clubbed at the nape of her neck, her clothes well-made, but hardly fashionable or royal in any degree.  
  
"No more titles, Sir Felix," she reminded him as he took up a torch from its bracket to lead them deeper into the darker part of the passage.  
  
"Well then what am I to call you?" he asked.  
  
She considered this for a moment. _Freddie_ was for Perry to call her, and everyone else only knew her as Frederica, or Princess.  
  
"...Just Fred will do," she decided.  
  
"And as I am a mere pilgrim, Just Felix will suit me, as well," was his reply. "Some folk will encounter a knight and wish to fight him only so they can say they did."  
  
"...are we near the furnaces, or under the kitchens?" asked Fred, tugging at the collar of her cloak, beads of perspiration dampening the loose curls about her forehead which had not been long enough to comb into her braid.  
  
"You'll be glad of the warmth of those garments when we have ridden for eighteen hours against a cold wind or made camp in the open air," said Felix.  
  
"I'm sure I will," said she. "This castle has been the only home I've ever known...and there has been happiness here, as well as..." Sorrow. "...but all happiness was in my brother..." And George. "And if he is gone, it is no longer the home I loved...and I cannot wait to be gone from it."  
  
"You will return someday," said Felix as a dim opening appeared before them at the far end of the curving tunnel. "With your brother."  
  
"With my brother," she agreed.  
  
They crept out the disguised entrance which had led them to the yard beside a stable just beyond the main castle entrance, and their two horses stood ready with supplies lashed to their saddles, and Fred reached beneath her cloak to the leather belt which held a small dagger and a heavy pouch filled with coin, knowing she had furnished Sir Felix with another like it.  
  
"Can you mount, your hi--Fred?"  
  
"Oh! Um...I thought..." Somehow the lack of a sidesaddle surprised her, but then suddenly the leggings made a great deal more sense, too.  
  
"Forgive the lack of modesty, but we will draw less attention riding as commoners."  
  
"Of course," said Fred with a firm nod as she let him help her up, adjusting to the strangeness of the position as she fixed the toes of her boots into the stirrups. The horse Sir Felix has selected for her was a gentle and elegant creature, and though the gelding seemed built for stamina over speed, she did not doubt it could perform well if it were asked to put a little extra distance between them and whatever lay behind, and quickly. But for now it was imperative that they draw no attention with unseemly haste. She was to pretend she was Felix's sister, come from the country to accompany him on his way to the shrine.  
  
Though Frederica wanted nothing more than to pull her hood low over her face, she knew there had to be no suspicion at the eastern gate, and that it was unlikely the city guard would recognize her--she had not often appeared before the common folk, and never since her brother's disappearance. The king selected his own guards for duty at the palace, and Frederica trusted she would not see any of them in such a part of the city as this.  
  
Indeed, as they rode, she found she no longer recognized where they were, and followed close behind Sir Felix, no longer recognizing the city as that in which she had lived all her life. The buildings rose above her head at a teetering angle which seemed to defy gravity, very nearly closing together at the top, pressing inward on all sides to create an unnerving space where, at times, they could only pass single-file through the narrow street.  
  
Given the lateness of the hour, Frederica had expected all to be quiet, and perhaps it was, comparatively speaking. There were few people in the streets, though here and there dark figures were propped up in doorways--some of them snoring lightly, their faces slack.  
  
"I wonder that so many guards are asleep at their posts," she said with a low chuckle as the road widened for a space, allowing her to ride beside Felix.  
  
"They are not guards," he explained after a moment's hesitation.  
  
"...aren't they?"  
  
"Not much to guard in this part of town--besides one's purse, perhaps. No, they're simply trying to find a place to rest for the night, and I suppose even the lowest lodgings are beyond their means."  
  
"Surely there is somewhere--"  
  
"Forgive me, your h--" Felix cut her off and glanced around at the shabby houses and stinking streets. "There is not. There is no law to regulate innkeepers and landlords, and with this being a port city and the king's capital, there is no shortage of custom for more costly housing. If anything is built, it is not for the poor. Some charitable institutions were put into place in your mother's time, but the population of the city has far outgrown their capabilities. Bad harvests for many years drove people to seek work here, and there has been little done for them."  
  
Frederica was silent at this, her face shadowed with deeper thought as they pressed onward to the gate.  
  
The gatekeeper hardly asked any questions of them, or why they were leaving the city so late at night--pilgrims were odd sorts, and he was only thinking of the wedge of meat pie he would go home to after his shift. He waved the travellers through and closed the gate behind them.  
  
Frederica had expected the countryside to open up beyond the city walls, and so she was surprised to find yet more buildings beyond the gate, many built against and even into the walls themselves. These were a much more ramshackle assortment, even compared to the poorer district within. There seemed to be little order to the "streets", with the main eastern road dividing the sprawling slums into two sides, and little dirt tracks, most scarcely wide enough to admit a donkey and a cart, spidering off among the hovels.  
  
A pall of smoke hung low over the area from the open fires many used for cooking or warmth, along with the sweet and rancid smell of rotting refuse and human filth. Frederica swallowed heavily at the burning sensation which suddenly pressed at the back of her throat, willing herself not to be sick as a black fly buzzed past her face.  
  
"Not far now," Felix promised her, glancing over at her wrinkled nose and frown.  
  
The smell somehow grew worse as they approached the edge of the houses, where the newest and worst of the shacks had been constructed, and the encampment's rubbish was tipped into stinking piles, where anyone had bothered to transport it there rather than just flinging it out into the street.  
  
Small figures moved in the darkness, and Frederica squinted to make out the forms of at least a dozen children swarming over the heaps, digging with their grubby hands into the broken cart-wheels and old fish-bones.  
  
"Good gods...where are their parents?" exclaimed Frederica.  
  
"I very much doubt they have any to care," said Felix softly, watching as a child gave a cry of delight to find a half-rotted head of cabbage, their thin fingers peeling away the slimy outer leaves so they could begin gnawing at the wormy heart of it. Frederica shuddered. "Many come to the city to seek its protection, but the city may refuse anyone entry, for any reason. And they do. With nowhere else to go, the rejected make their homes here, and live as best they can, for as long as they are able."  
  
"My father cannot be aware of this..." she said, as, at last, the air seemed to freshen and the buildings gave way to the fenced fields and pastures which provided much of the city with food.  
  
"...three years ago," began Felix slowly, "those handful of patrons who run the city's orphanages went to the king to say they could not possibly manage any more than the children they already had."  
  
"...and?"  
  
"...and the king said they should then take on no more. And since then no child who has not at least one parent in secure work has been admitted entry to the city."  
  
Without another word, Frederica took the reins of her horse and turned its head, urging it at a faster trot back towards the fringes of the slums.  
  
"Fred!"  
  
Felix could only turn his own horse to follow, and caught up with her in time to see her plunge a hand deep into the pouch at her belt and lean down to hand some coins to the children who had quickly clustered about the horse, when they saw her reaching for her purse.  
  
"...Fred!" said Felix, smiling despite himself, though there was a sadness in his eyes as he watched her. So a dozen children might have bread for a week--if others did not immediately take the money from them. The slums were vaster than even Felix could see in this low light, and he knew it would take more than all the coin they carried to even begin to make a change. "We must go!"  
  
"I know!" said the princess, with a tight nod as she turned her horse to rejoin him, the children scattering and seeming to melt into the darkness. There had been no laughter, no joyful surprise as their dirty hands had reached up to receive the money--only quiet desperation.  
  
The two of them rode in silence until even the city farms had given way to unworked grassland and a few trees where streams curled across the flat landscape, and a darker smear of woodland where the the wider course of the Silver Rill river went down to the sea, its source somewhere deep and distant in the Bowridge Mountains themselves.  
  
"When my brother is returned, he will do something," said Frederica, with greater certainty than she felt. "We will not feast with foreign princes in the castle while our own people starve on its steps."  
  
"...if a wise regent were chosen...one who may be kinder than your father...one whom you could guide as queen," ventured Felix. "...would you go back this moment, to try?"  
  
Frederica looked over her shoulder at the lights of the city, now growing faint and small, and said nothing for a long time.  
  
"I...I could not bring myself to trust that I might...that I could..." she trailed off, her voice trembling as she felt her sense of duty was no longer something she could don or discard like an itching garment. Her duty now lived and breathed and scrambled for a miserable survival in the shadowed places of her own home. Her duty now had a face--several faces. "...I must find my brother," she whispered, biting back her tears in the darkness.


	4. Into the Woods

  


 

They rode eastward for the whole of that night, their pace only restrained with prudence as to what the horses could feasibly manage. They rested the animals, briefly, at dawn, but did not sleep before they mounted once more and continued to ride for the whole of the day, careful to take their breaks at intervals where they could slip into the trees now crowding about the road on both sides as the fields gave way to forest.

The Silver Rill still came into view through the trees to Frederica’s right as she rode, glimmers and flashes of sunlight on water catching her eye now and then where the woodland grew thin and the road curved nearer the river’s course.

She drew a breath and tried to sit up straighter in her saddle, her back and legs almost beyond aching, now, with the strain of riding for such a prolonged stretch of many hours, and not being used to it.

Felix glanced over, his mouth twitching with a sympathetic sort of grimace.

“We’ll halt after sundown,” he said. “And I think we had better make camp, rather than ride on to any inn, for the time being.”

They had passed through a few outlying villages, and over cross-roads that would lead to others, but they had yet enough in their saddle-bags to provide them with food and water for the beginning of their journey. Haste and a low profile were their aims in the first part of their flight from the capital—to stay in any village or inn would mean speaking to and being seen by people who could be questioned later. Visitors who stayed were more remarkable than nondescript riders who merely passed through without looking left nor right.

“Of course,” said Fred, biting back her deeper sigh of discomfort and gathering all the composure she had ever summoned to spend hours sitting through seemingly-endless displays of royal protocol in her father’s court. Felix wisely said no more—what they must do, they would do, and to be overly chivalrous in allowing the princess to rest would only place her in greater danger of being tracked and captured, if and when her father sent pursuers after her. Mindful of his duty to the greater promise he had made to escort her, he merely hastened the pace of their riding, and kept an eye upon the sky as the light of the afternoon deepened into dusk, and then the bright twilight of summer as the moon rose.

A little further along the river road, and he motioned to her to direct her horse into a slight break in the undergrowth—a track used by deer, or perhaps a poacher’s trail…Felix kept his eyes upon the ground and the trees to check for any traps, but saw nothing which could harm them or their horses.

Eventually they came upon a small clearing, and Felix dismounted, going to immediately help by lifting Frederica down from her horse, and holding her up by the elbows until he was certain she was steady on her feet. She could not help the slight grunt that left her as she took her first two steps on her aching legs.

“It will get easier,” Felix assured her as he took a coil of rope from his saddle and moved to tether the horses where they might rest and graze, before he took the bags and saddles from their backs, quietly setting up the place where they might rest for the night.

“What can I do?” asked Fred, feeling suddenly awkward as she stood watching Felix as he had begun to gather some brush and clear a space of earth to build a campfire.

“Oh, I can manage, your—”

“Felix, please. I must learn all I can. I am no good to anyone as dead weight on a journey—not even to myself.”

He looked up at her for a moment before he gave a grudging nod, and pointed to the heap of their saddles and packs.

“The water-skins should be filled,” he said. “The river can’t be far off, and, see, the path continues on that side of the clearing—only mind you watch your step as it grows dark.”

Frederica nodded, eagerly lifting both waterskins—which, though empty, surprised her by their weight, though she supposed it must be partly due to her own weariness.

_Your own weakness, you mean…_

Gritting her teeth against the treacherous voice of her own self-doubt, she gamely found her footing on the narrow path that wound down to the grassy river-bank, removing her gloves and rolling back her sleeves past her wrists so she could hold the stiff mouths of the waterskins beneath the shallow ripples of the water, letting it slowly fill them to bulging.

Despite her gloves, her tense grip upon her reins for the better part of the past twenty-four hours had left her hands sore and beginning to blister. Frederica had first gasped at the cool water, then sighed with some relief as the edge of numbness it brought eased some of the pain. Once the skins were full, she hauled them back onto the bank and frowned at them. Surely, she could rest a moment before she took them back, now, heavy as they were? She was beyond any exhaustion she had ever yet felt in her life, and even the prospect of sleeping on the ground was at least the prospect of sleep, and stillness, and not having to stay upright upon an unfamiliar saddle.

Looking up and down the expanse of the slow-moving river, Fred was suddenly struck by the strange beauty of its solitude. Was this what freedom felt like, after all? The moon had just risen above the treetops, and the steady sigh of the water in the weeds below and the wind in the boughs above brought a sense of calm over her that was as heady as a first long sip of strong wine.

Beyond even the serenity of that long moment, Frederica all at once felt ache of her muscles and the prickling heat of her many layers, smelling much too strongly of horse and leather and—good gods, was that _her_?

“Right,” she said to no-one and nothing, slowly lowering herself to sit on the ground before she began to pry off her boots and unfasten the toggles of her cloak, laying her outerwear alongside her gloves. Realizing it was probably not wise to get her only clothing wet when there was no sunlight to dry them, Frederica did not long hesitate before she shucked off her leggings and then—at the last possible moment, her shirt, very nearly drenching it as she tried to slip it off and crouch into the concealment of a clump of rushes at the same instant.

She bit back a yelp of shock as she inched deeper into the water, all thoughts of relief in a quick and refreshing dip being obliterated by how teeth-achingly cold it now seemed. Her determination was not to be undone, however, and she pressed on, at least promising herself that she would have a swift and rudimentary sort of bath before she returned. After all, it wouldn’t do if Felix grew worried by her absence and came looking for her. _That_ notion, more than anything, spurred Fred to be quick about it, and she splashed handfuls of the water over herself before dashing back up the slippery bank, trying to wipe her muddy bare feet on the dryer tufts of grass higher up. The linen of her shirt stuck to her damp skin, and it did not smell exactly clean, but it was better than nothing. Fred then wrestled with her leggings, trying to stop her teeth from chattering as she awkwardly hopped into them, finally wrenching them somewhat into place.

Fred was reaching for her cloak when she heard a single, brief shout, ringing out against the quiet of the night as clearly as an owl’s low call. She froze, peering back up the winding path that led to the camp, hearing no more from that distance, but her nose now tickling at the smell of smoke. Felix must have lit the campfire—and then what? Some sort of accident?

Losing no more time, she grabbed her boots and pulled them on, abandoning all the rest on the river-bank as she dashed back up the path as swiftly as she could.

It was only when she heard voices that she stopped dead in her tracks and instinctively threw herself low to the ground, landing upon her hands and knees and hardly daring to inch forward, trying not to disturb any brush as the glow of firelight appeared and the voices became distinct enough for her to make out words.

“Please,” she heard Felix say, his tone calm, and yet very unlike his usual voice. “I am but a poor pilgrim…”

“A pilgrim you may be,” said another man’s voice, with a warm edge to it that made Fred think he must be smiling—or sneering—as he spoke. “With good horses…and such fine saddles... _two_ of them. It almost seems excessive, for…what was it? A _poor_ pilgrim?”

Fred felt her blood chill in her veins, lowering her head another fraction of an inch, but still, she crept closer. She could not abandon Felix to any ruffian—and if there were only one of him, and two of them, numbers were in their favour, and Sir Felix a trained and able fighter.

She drew nearer the last part of the path, where it straightened and led into the clearing, though the fire did not cast its light past the shadows of the undergrowth and trees that curled above her. She could see Felix, now, and he knelt beside the fire, with both hands bound before him, while a dark-haired stranger circled him, the blade of his dagger shining brightly in his grip as he held it above Felix’s neck—not an immediate threat, but only half a breath away from being plunged deep into the pulse of his throat.

“Where is your companion, then?” asked another voice, much nearer, and Fred had to press her hand over her mouth to keep herself from letting out a shriek as she realized a second man stood very near her hiding-place, at the edge of the clearing, and only a few feet to the right of where she stayed concealed, pressing herself as low to the earth as she could without lying on her belly. If the worst should happen, all she could do was run.

“Fled, if they’ve any sense,” said Felix, a little louder than he’d spoken before; and though Fred could not say with any certainty that his gaze flickered for one moment to the path—even that would have betrayed more information than he cared to give—she wondered if he knew she had heard his shout, and that she would have come back.

“And left you to be surprised by us? That is ungallant of them,” chuckled the one guarding Felix, while the second, Fred realized, was now looking through the contents of the saddle-bags.

“Is this really all the coin you have?” he said with disbelief. “Here!” He tossed the small leather pouch in an arc across the clearing, where his companion caught it, one-handed, and weighed it in his palm.

“…it can’t be. This would never get two pilgrims as far as the shrine, even if they begged their bread all along the road. And you, my friend, are no beggar.” He tapped the flat of the dagger’s blade against his captive’s cheek, and Felix twitched his face away from it, his expression eerily unmoving in a stoic sort of calm Fred had never before seen in him, but recognized, faintly, from something she had seen in the faces of some of her father’s generals, who had fought in some of the bloodiest campaigns of the kingdom’s recent history. She suppressed a shudder as she realized the truth of what a knight was, after all—for all his chivalry and kindness to her, Felix was a fighter, and what she saw in his face now was the bravery that could lead men to their deaths for whatever cause they held dearest.

He could not hope to even reach for any weapon of his own without retribution from that dagger, and Freddie could see through the branches of a low bush that a similar weapon hung at the belt of the second bandit. Even if she leapt upon his back and locked an arm about his throat, he could surely reach back to stab her before she could hope to crush his windpipe. Not to mention that the notion of _her_ doing physical injury to anybody was laughable. A princess trained in the art of ladylike diplomacy and court politics—not in hand-to-hand combat. Manners and lies, posturing and pretense…

Frederica bit her lip.

_Lies. Pretense._

They could not know who she truly was, after all…

She only had to wait for the second man to drift a step or two closer to the break in the brush where she crouched, but that took an interminable amount of time, and Fred felt her every heartbeat pulse like choking fire at the back of her throat. Moments seemed to drag on forever as the two bandits joked between themselves and pawed through their supplies.

“I think we had better just have the saddles and horses,” said the one nearest her, dropping the packs back to the ground with a clatter as he straightened. A flash of bright metal flickered in the firelight as the pack slumped over, a small pocket on one side yielding a small pendant on a thin strip of leather. “Hold on,” he said, bending to retrieve it. “What’s this?”

“Gold?”

Fred’s brows drew themselves together in a frown as the bandit raised the pendant beyond her sight, as if to test it against his teeth.

With a burst of anger giving her courage the edge over her fear, Fred was on her feet in a moment, launching herself at the back of the second bandit before she could register as any more than a moving shadow to the one that faced her, still standing on the other side of the fire, and with Felix at his mercy.

But two could play at the game of hostages.

Fred’s blistered hand closed on the hilt of the dagger before anyone could so much as shout, and yanked it free of its sheath, turning her wrist so the point of the blade pressed precisely where the was a crack in the boiled leathers the bandit wore. She felt the solid weight of the man flinch away from its bite, and heard a voice that she felt could not be her own, and yet knew it must be…

“Hold, or it’ll find a home between your ribs,” she snapped, and the bandit obligingly stilled, his own hands rising in a gesture of slow surrender as he glanced down to see the coldly furious girl who held his own dagger against him.

“Well, what have we here?” he asked smoothly, daring to grin down at her.

“You’ll release my companion,” she demanded at once, still in that strange and imperious voice that seemed to exist entirely apart from the trembling and sick feeling in her stomach. “And be on your way.”

“Oh, we never meant to _harm_ your lover,” said the bandit.

“He’s _not_ —” Fred fell silent, realizing how he meant to goad her. “I would have you know I am well-trained in combat…I was a student of…” _of who?_ “…of the Grey Assassin!”

“…the Grey Assassin, indeed?” murmured the one guarding Felix, his posture unchanged, though now his dark eyes did not move from where Fred stood with a knife to his comrade. “No wonder you go to pray for forgiveness at the shrine, then. You must have taken many lives, even as young as you are.”

“…I have,” said Fred, willing her hands not to shake. “And I will not hesitate to take one more.”

“Then do it.”

“What?” said Fred.

“ _What_?” echoed her hostage.

“…kill him,” said the bandit airily, the beginnings of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I have always wished to see the handiwork of the Grey Assassin…but even the efforts of an apprentice would be a sight well-worth seeing.”

Fred swallowed, hard, and her gaze moved to Felix, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

 _Run,_ he bid her silently.

She looked back to the knife in her hand, the sharp and shining edge of the blade already meeting the resistance of flesh and bone where she had pressed it in the gap of the armour. Could she bear to do it? Lean her weight upon it a little more, and let her own fear and anger break open a man’s body so he could bleed to death in unknowable agony?

It was in that moment of her hesitation that she felt a strong hand clamp down hard upon her wrist, the bandit wrenching the dagger away from his ribs and holding her out at the length of his arm.

“Fred!” cried Felix as she yelped with surprise.

“The Grey Assassin, indeed,” mused the one that held her, who now grinned broadly. “But it was an impressive performance, nonetheless—don’t you agree, Jeannot?”

“If her career as an assassin does not suit, she would do well upon the stage,” agreed Jeannot. “Have your dagger back and let her go, Monty. She’s no threat.”

“You hadn’t her knife to your ribs,” griped Monty, plucking back his dagger from her hand. “Be honest, my little vixen—you were considering it.”

“Give me the dagger back,” spat Fred, seething and thoroughly terrified. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Now, now!” said Monty. “I meant what I said about not harming anyone…come on, Jeannot—a show of good faith for our little pilgrim friends. I trust you not to be stupid enough to reach for your own weapon?” he addressed himself to Felix while maintaining his hold on Fred’s arm. Felix slowly shook his head; and Jeannot stepped back, his grip on his knife easing. “You see?” Monty looked back to Fred, beaming.

“And so you only mean to rob us of all we have?” said she, George’s fears for her safety echoing in her mind. It could not all be over—not like this. She still had to find Perry. Her eyes sought out the pendant that Monty had dropped to the ground, and he followed her gaze.

Keeping his dagger before him, he released her and slowly moved to pick it up.

“…you did not attack me until I’d found this,” he mused. “It _is_ gold, isn’t it?”

“There is more money,” she blurted. “I left my purse by the river. There is more far coin than that trinket is worth.”

“Oh, I imagine its worth is beyond coin,” mused Monty, grinning as he dangled it before her eyes. Fred had to call upon all the poise of her station to keep herself from trying to swipe at it like a desperate and irritated child. She pressed her lips together into a thin line and said nothing.

Monty watched her for a moment, and saw she would not rise to his bait, and gave a slight nod, his smile turning contemplative.

“Stop toying with the girl,” sighed Jeannot. “Never mind the purse by the river—if it even exists. Ten to one she’d only try to push you into the water or some other mischief after luring you down there.”

“What of a bargain?” said Monty suddenly.

“…can one hope to make a deal with a thief?” scoffed Fred, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

“We are gentlemen thieves, I’ll have you know!” said Monty, seeming very nearly truly affronted at the error.

“This is true,” agreed Jeannot with an easy shrug.

“You may keep your purse—or purses—your horses—your saddles—and even this extremely fine bit of gold,” said Monty.

Fred’s glance slid to Jeannot to see if this was some sort of joke, again, or a trick, but only saw the other man shake his head with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, as if he had seen Monty do this a thousand times before.

“…for?”

Still smiling, Monty reached out the hand that held the pendant and pinched her chin lightly.

“A kiss?”

Fred hastily took an entire step backwards, and Jeannot let out a hearty laugh.

“Gods, Monty,” he chuckled. “When will you learn that your charm has a very finite number of people it will work upon?”

“Practice makes perfect,” insisted Monty, seemingly unperturbed for all her reaction had been one of evident repulsion.

“Practice on someone you haven’t threatened recently,” Jeannot advised him, strolling over to take the pendant from his hand and press a kiss to Monty’s cheek before he held it out to Fred. “He’s right, you know—we consider ourselves gentlemen first, and thieves second. Had we known one of your party to be a lady, we should never have initiated this rough encounter.”

“I’m…I’m not a lady,” said Fred, still frowning for a long moment until she realized he was not teasing her as Monty had done, and quickly reached to grab the pendant. He caught at her hand as she took the bauble from him, however, and turned her palm upwards in his grasp, the pad of his thumb brushing against the rough nascent sores that burned against her soft skin.

“…our mistake, then,” he said, with another of his slow smiles before he released his hold. “Still, we must beg you to forgive Monty’s oafish way of showing his admiration for your courage. He is not often caught unawares. But when he is, it does tend to be by a weaponless woman.”

Monty snorted.

“Every woman carries a weapon…” he sighed, with a glance at Fred that was too openly admiring for her to feel entirely comfortable beneath it.

“I believe it’s called cleverness,” Jeannot retorted, to which Monty could only give a good-natured shrug of agreement. “Come along, before you make a greater fool of yourself over a pilgrim girl who despises you. Let us leave them be.”

Fred could scarcely believe it. She could imagine no sort of trickery that would lead them to feign this mercy, unless they were truly cruel enough to enjoy torturing their victims with an illusion of freedom. With the medallion in her hand, however, she lost no time in going to Felix and beginning to pick at the knots about his wrists.

“It’s still a fair distance to your shrine,” remarked Monty, observing them with his arms crossed, entirely relaxed, even when Felix found himself free and made a lunge to where he’d laid aside his weapons, half-shoving Freddie behind him as he took a defensive stance before the bandits. “Easy now--we’ve had enough excitement for one evening, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” said Jeannot, making himself comfortable beside the fire and stretching out with Felix’s bedroll for a pillow. “You haven’t got anything better to eat than horrid dried meat and day-old bread, have you?”

“…what, are you proposing that we just…share a camp as _friends_?” scoffed Felix. “You’ll likely slit our throats as we sleep.”

Monty heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot here, but _honestly_ , we’re far too fastidious to go shedding blood unless it’s strictly necessary. But perhaps _you_ wouldn’t understand that,” he said, eyeing the posture of the knight militant. “Your girl there is more our kind—puts on a good show, but only condescends to get her hands dirty when there is no other alternative.”

“I am nothing like you!” said Freddie witheringly, trying to see around Felix, who, in protecting her, was also rather blocking her view of what was going on.

Monty clucked his tongue lightly, slid his dagger free of his belt once more, and tossed it to her, the point of it thudding into the mossy earth at her feet.

“Would you like to be?”

“ _What_?”

“Come on,” Monty gave a jerk of his head in invitation. “Pick up that blade, and I’ll show you how to use it.” He turned his back to them and began to stretch his arms lightly, as though preparing himself. Glancing back at Frederica, he grinned. “You’ve a very long way to go to St. Almacks, and the road hardly gets much safer. We live in uncertain times, Fred.”

“ _You_ will address her as—” Felix burst out hotly, only to fall suddenly silent.

“Fred. Fred is fine,” she broke in quickly, scrambling to retrieve the dagger. Just in case.

Monty’s grin widened.

“Fred it is. Now, attack me—please don’t kill me, but just come at me as if you’re going to strike a blow.”

Freddie looked up at Felix, who was shaking his head disapprovingly, then looked back at Monty.

Pushing her tongue firmly into the bulge of one cheek, she drew a deeper breath, paused…and took a run at the red-haired bandit.

In the space between heartbeats he’d bent double, ducking beneath her arm and rising beneath it with something small and shining in his hand—the dagger he’d retrieved from his boot locking against the blade in her hand and holding it at bay, inches from his torso.

“The first lesson of fighting with a dagger is: always have a second dagger. The gods gave you two hands, and it’s best to use them.”

Somewhere behind her, Freddie heard Sir Felix beginning to mutter some kind of prayer for patience, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her escort pinching the bridge of his nose. The warm, leather-wrapped hilt of the smaller dagger slid into her other hand, and she turned back to watch Monty stride over to Jeannot and borrow his companion’s daggers.

“Now,” he continued, as he returned to her, looking and sounding boyishly excited. “Your smaller stature is likely to be to your advantage in close combat with short blades, if you can get your footwork right…” If the evening was not to end in a successful robbery or the granting of a kiss, this seemed to him to at least be a satisfactory third-place option, and Freddie found she was rapidly growing accustomed to extraordinary encounters since leaving the castle. “I’ll teach you what I can for tonight, but I must leave it to your fusty friend here to keep you in good practice—if he knows anything about daggers.”

“I know plenty!” snapped Felix.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Monty with unshakeable courtesy. “You cannot pretend as though you will always be able to protect her, you know. She knows it, too.”

“I would have shown her some things…soon. Eventually. We had to…we wanted to put some distance behind us, first…” Felix explained haltingly, before he had to incredulously wonder at himself feeling he owed these fiends any explanation, at all.

“I understand you perfectly, my good man,” said Monty, with a gallant little bow to the nonplussed knight as he took up his place opposite Freddie once more, Jeannot’s daggers in his hands. “I’ve been on many such a pilgrimage, myself.”

“He means he’s had to flee a few seductions gone sideways,” drawled Jeannot, his eyes already closed.

“That’s not—we—he—”

“Oh, no, no, no!” interjected Monty, as Frederica stammered and flushed. “Please, keep your secrets. Let us have a little intrigue between friends.”

Freddie astonished herself and Felix in what happened next—she laughed. It burst out of her like something looming suddenly out of the darkness, a flare of mirth that caught her unawares…and she could not immediately stop it. It had been months since she had laughed—over a year, since before Perry had disappeared. By the time she had finished, she felt breathless, strangely vibrant, and… _alive_ , in a way she had not felt in a very long time.

“Alright,” she said, adjusting her grip on both daggers. “Show me what to do next.”


	5. Fire and Feathers

  


 

There had been birdsong, and the rustle of the breeze in the trees above, but Frederica had awoken in such a state of grim soreness that she hadn’t even attempted to open her eyes for an interminably long time. The glade where they’d camped was cool in the shade, when the sun was not yet high in the sky, but she was warm enough where she was—curled beneath the weight of her cloak, and not having to move any of her aching muscles. A long day’s ride, followed by her perhaps too-eager fighting lesson with a charming bandit had left her ready to pull her hood over her head and not stir at all for several more hours, even if she was only bedded down on the mossy turf at the edge of the clearing.

It wasn’t until she heard the endlessly-honourable Sir Felix Sutcliffe _curse_ that her eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up.

The remains of the campfire were still smoking, but there was no sign of Jeannot or Monty—or Felix’s horse. Freddie immediately scrambled for the pendant, but found it safe on its cord about her wrist, and her knight escort rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin with a heavy sigh.

“Forgive me, your highness,” he mumbled, reddening to realize she’d heard his language.

“Never mind that, we can continue with the one horse, if at a slower pace,” said Freddie, gritting her teeth against the screaming protest of her back and limbs as she reached for her jerkin from her pile of neatly-folded outer clothes…which she now recalled, she’d left down by the riverbank when the thieves had come upon them. The filled waterskins, she saw propped over by the small heap of their supplies.

Her coin purse was nowhere to be found.

Freddie checked the saddlebags and shook out the rest of her clothes to be certain, her heart sinking. With the damning evidence of the return of her clothes and the waterskins, she felt the hope that it was somehow still down by the water to be a foolish one, though she slipped away to check, just in case.

She found only mud and footprints…and a sturdy little dagger wedged into the soft trunk of a young sapling, the wind off the river causing the slip of paper pinned beneath it to flutter like the wings of a large moth. Freddie yanked the blade free and caught the note, unfolding it with a frown.

_Until our paths cross again, clever little Fred-is-Fine. Enjoy your journey._

_\- your Cleverer Friends_

As there was no-one immediately nearby to be shocked, Freddie employed one of Felix’s curse-words herself as she crushed the note in the palm of her hand. The dagger she tucked inside one of her boots, and pocketed the paper as she tramped back up to the clearing.

“We’ve got food enough for a few days,” she said determinedly to Felix, who was saddling their one mount when she returned.

“I can take work, if we pass some farm,” said Felix.

“I can, too!”

“Labouring?” Felix hadn’t meant to doubt her, but the dubious look he gave Frederica made her bristle.

“I can try!” protested Freddie. “Anyway, have _you_ ever done farm-work?”

“…no,” admitted Felix with another sigh. “But I _am_ stronger than you.”

“Well, maybe I can…gather eggs, or sweep floors, or something. Anyway, we’ll see what we can find. There are nuts and mushrooms and berries in the woods we can eat, aren’t there?”

“Yes,” said Felix with a wry look. “But some of them can only be eaten once.”

“…oh.”

“Come on,” he said, striving to be cheerful. “We’ll just go on our way for now, and think of something. We’re a reasonably smart pair.”

Freddie thought of the note from their Cleverer Friends with a twist of her mouth, but said nothing as they stamped out the last of the smoking splinters and mounted the horse, Freddie sitting forward in the saddle and holding onto the pommel while Sir Felix held onto the reins. It was nearer contact than she was used to, but there was something utterly comforting about the knight’s presence and strength. He did not make her pulse race as the young Lord Haverleigh could manage with just a glance, but there was an easy companionship she’d found in the sympathetic Sir Felix which she cherished more and more with every passing moment. She had not felt she had a true friend like him since Perry’s disappearance; and to face what she must do now, and to come through even the folly they had already encountered, she could not imagine managing it, alone.

Even the day’s riding felt easier, now, as she could let her mind wander, only needing to hold on, while Sir Felix kept his feet in the stirrups and kept both hands firmly on the reins. Their progress was slower, now that their sole animal must carry them both, as well as all that was left of their gear and saddlebags, tied down as neatly as possible in balanced packs on either side of the horse’s hindquarters. Felix had chosen both their beasts well, however, and as they kept a reasonable pace and paused to rest more often, the horse did not balk at the load.

The knight did not speak much, however; no doubt still tired and disappointed in himself for being fool enough to have even allowed those bandits to take advantage of them in the first place. The encounter could have gone a great deal worse, it was true, but it ought not to have happened, at all. Now there was nothing for it, of course, but to continue onwards as best they could, at a greater risk of being overtaken by any fast riders which the king may have sent out to search for the princess, and Felix felt every bit of his own shame that there should be even more danger, now, when his primary goal had been to keep his oath that he would help Frederica and see to her safety.

“Is that a crossroad?” Freddie’s voice broke through the fog of recriminating thoughts like a beam of sunlight, and Felix glanced to the widening of the path ahead, then nodded.

“I think that must be the road to Woodston,” he said. Freddie recalled it marked on some maps as a modest town, not of much importance to the state, but apparently a comfortable little spot for those who made it their home. It was the last sizeable sort of place along the forest routes to the northern city of Bondport, a rougher place than the capital, where the shipping trade thrived on the timber and raw ores hauled out from the Bowridge Mountains and the surrounding woods. Villages were dotted along the northern forest roads, as well as the river-road, which they now followed east, with a few market-towns, each about a day’s ride apart, the nearer one got to the capital; but now these stops were fewer and farther between, and the forest seemed to close in more and more, as they travelled. “Perhaps…”

Felix trailed off, his thought unfinished.

“Perhaps what?” asked Freddie.

“I know you feel some urgency,” Felix began after another moment’s hesitation. “But now that we are down to the one horse and must take a slower pace, it may be wise to alter our route. There is a way through the hills to the shrine of St. Almack’s, but it is less direct than our current path. We would lose a few day’s time on the road, but I would wager it might be safer to hide ourselves on the less-traveled route.”

“Lose a few days!?” cried Freddie. “After we have already been slowed?”

“If we are overtaken on this road, we cannot hope to outrun anybody who may be after us,” Felix pointed out. “The forest roads twist and diverge as if they were the roots of the trees themselves. If we must go slower, I’d rather try to confound anyone who tries to follow.”

Freddie wanted to protest—she wanted to burst into tears, she was so tired and sore and heartsick. But she saw the prudence in Sir Felix’s suggestion, and knew she must consider the long-term advantage to her goals. The witch was unlikely to go anywhere if they took a few more days to find her.

Swallowing heavily, she nodded slowly, and Felix turned the horse’s head to take them to Woodston.

\---

It was a narrower road they journeyed along, and a lonely one—they encountered no-one in the course of several hours, until a solitary woodcutter leading his donkey appeared, giving them a single nod in passing. Freddie happened to glance back before they reached another bend in the road, and saw the man turn his donkey down an even fainter track spidering away from the roadside, and disappear into the trees.

Even the birds seemed to have grown quieter in the shaded forest paths, and the plod of the horse’s hooves on the packed dirt in the ruts worn by wagon-wheels was the only constant sound as they made their way north.

They broke their journey more or less around midday, where the track almost seemed to diverge into two branches, only one was criss-crossed by arching brambles, as if it had not been disturbed for some time.

“Perhaps an abandoned village?” guessed Felix as he raised the waterskin to his lips. “Or some old woodcutter’s camp. Not the way to Woodston, clearly…though we can’t be far off, I think. We may not make it before nightfall, but certainly tomorrow, someti— _gods help us_!” he broke off as a thunderous roar split the silence of the forest, and Freddie thought she felt the earth shudder beneath her boots as she clapped both hands over her ears with a wince.

They both looked about frantically for the cause, half-fearing to see a fully-armed battalion of the king’s soldiers galloping towards them, but saw nothing, but heard the flapping of the wings of disturbed flocks of birds, and the faint ringing in their ears.

“What _was_ that?” asked Freddie, as Felix was frantically trying to pack up.

“We should leave,” he said.

“But what _was_ it?” she repeated.

“I have no idea,” he admitted, yanking on a leather strap to secure the pack back into its place. “And by the nine gods, I don’t think I want to find out. Come on!”

Freddie let him put his hands beneath her booted foot and hoist her onto the saddle, only to turn her head, her nose wrinkling a little.

“I can smell smoke,” she said.

“So whatever it was has caused a fire, or else someone’s made camp upwind of us, never mind all that!”

“But what if there’s some trouble?”

“Exactly! We should avoid it.”

“No, look—” Freddie pointed to where blueish trails of smoke were now drifting through the trees on the wind, twisting like wraiths. “It’s coming from somewhere down the other track.”

“Your highness, _please_ …”

But she was already swinging her leg back over the saddle and jumping down to the ground.

“Have the horse ready,” she said, “but I’m going to take a look. You can wait here, if you like.”

Felix let out a deep groan as Freddie was already striding off down the disused road, pushing aside the brambles where they caught at her cloak. Her sturdy gloves helped, but did not offer complete protection from the thorns; and with a gasp, she pulled off one of her gloves and stuck a bleeding knuckle into her mouth before pressing on, pulling her new dagger from her boot and instead hacking away at the canes.

Felix took the horse, leading it by its reins, and soon caught up with her, his free hand resting on the grip of his sword. The smell of smoke on the wind only grew stronger, but Freddie was frowning.

“…it’s not…it’s not woodsmoke, is it?” she said. There was a tang to the air which was almost sulfurous and slick, and Freddie found it unsettling.

“No,” said Felix. “Nor peat, exactly...shh-shh!” He held out an arm to halt her and held up a finger for silence as the path curved about the base of a large tree and then opened out to an open stretch of grass on either side of the earthen path…covered in bits of smoking stone and charred splinters of wood.

Freddie pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle a cry of horror as they saw the heap of rubble before them which had once been a building—and not an inconsiderable structure, now in ruin, still with feeble bursts of flame licking in two or three places.

A raven growled in the boughs of the tree above them, and Freddie jumped at the sound, her heart beating frantically.

“Could…could there be anybody inside?” she asked Felix. The raven croaked again, flapping its great black wings.

“If there is, it would be a miracle to find them alive…” said Felix.

“We must at least try!” insisted Freddie.

“Are you mad? We have no notion of what happened here—it could have been a trap, it could still be dangerous!”

There was a fluttering of wings, and Freddie squealed a little as the raven swooped down and landed on her shoulder, its talons digging a little painfully through the wool and leather of her clothes. She stood very still, keeping her eyes closed, terrified that any moment it would begin pecking them out, only to feel the silky brush of its feathers against her cheek and hear the soft chattering of its beak as it let out a trill.

“Wha…” She at last dared to peek with one eye, and saw Felix regarding her with some dubious surprise. “…it…it seems to be a tame raven,” she stammered, at which the bird cocked its head and winked a glistening beady eye at her. “…did…did you see what happened here?” she tried, at which the bird whirred again.

“The highest gods give me patience,” muttered Felix, pinching the bridge of his nose. Freddie shot him the briefest of glares before she hesitantly held out her arm, and the raven immediately hopped down to perch on her forearm, still peering up at her.

“Is there anyone in there?”

The raven croaked, and bobbed once.

“She’s talking to a bird. She is talking. To birds.” Felix, for his part, seemed to be addressing the empty air in general.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I am asking questions and the bird is simply saying _yes_!” snapped Freddie. “Right, come on—let’s have a look!”

“Fred!”

But the raven had taken off with a rustle of wings, gliding over to what remained of the structure and perching on a section of the wall which now only stood a little more than three feet high. Freddie ran after him, and Felix swore for the…well, now he was losing count of how many times he’d sworn, that day.

The raven tapped its beak lightly against one of the fallen beams which was blocking a path winding deeper into the ruins, and Freddie thought she saw where the threshold might have once been.

“Is there anybody in here?” she called out as she began to pick her way over the broken mess towards the bird’s perch. “Can you hear me?”

“Fred!” Felix, having tied the horse to a tree, had now caught up with her. “Get away from it, Fred!”

“Shhh!” She hushed him. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“SHHH! –who’s there?” she called, then waited a moment, one fist ready to thump Felix if he interrupted her again.

“…mm’mey’hrrrr!”

“There! Listen!” Freddie gasped and began to scramble over some more wrecked wood and what looked to be half a table until she stood next to the raven, which was bouncing and chirruping in a frenzy. “Call out again so we can find you, please!”

“DHN. HR!”

The muffled cry was followed by several hollow thumps, and Freddie looked down at her feet with some confusion until she realized that the bit of wood and metal she could see beneath the toe of her boot was not, in fact, a part of the general disarray of the ruins, but the edge of a heavy cellar door and its wrought-iron handle.

“Oh! Just—just a moment!” called Freddie. “Felix, come and help me move some of this!” she demanded, already trying—and entirely failing—to shove the remains of an old cabinet out of the way, its glass and pottery contents smashed into glittering heaps where they crunched beneath her boots.

Seeing that she was determined, Felix sighed and gamely went to assist her, and, between them, they finally managed to clear away enough of the wreckage to expose the whole of the trap-door.

Felix made Freddie stand behind him as he unsheathed his sword and backed them both up from the cellar.

“The way is clear!” he called out, at the ready for whatever might burst out to face them.

There was another thud, and a grinding sort of noise, and then the hinges squeaked as the door popped open and a lanky young man—streaked with soot—was glaring at them both as he thumped up the last few crude steps which descended into the darkness beneath.

“I’m going to kill that cursed bird!” he snapped.

Freddie’s eyes widened as she looked back to the raven, who had wisely hopped just beyond the young man’s reach.

“…the bird…is cursed?” she asked in a dry whisper.

“…the bird _did this_?” asked Felix with more puzzlement.

“No, not cursed in the technical sense,” sighed the sooty man, at which the bird let out a croak. “But I have no doubt he is entirely responsible! Any time my back is turned, he is clattering about my laboratory and ruining my work! I suppose I’m lucky to be alive, but if I hadn’t gone down cellar to fetch some more saltpetre, he wouldn’t have been sticking his beak in where it doesn’t belong!”

The bird chose this moment to flap back over to Freddie’s shoulder, thinking it the safest perch for the time being.

“He’s your pet?” asked Freddie. “What’s his name?”

The soot-man stared at her with a frown.

“Raven. Because…it’s a raven. And he’s not my pet, he just turned up one day. I hardly…well, normally he’s quite well-mannered, but he _will_ peck at my experiments when I’m not looking!”

“Experiments?” asked Felix suspiciously.

“The testing of various alchemical processes whereby…well…” he now cast a mournful gaze over what remained of his workshop and home. “…Damn it, I suppose I ought to thank you for getting me out, after all,” said the man with a sigh. “I could have maybe dug my way out if I had enough light, but it was black as…well, a raven, down there, when the blast blew my candle out.” He turned his eyes back to the raven. “You probably knocked over the boiler, didn’t you?” he said accusingly, at which the bird only ruffled up his feathers in a fair imitation of a shrug. “I swear it’s like he forgets he even has wings, sometimes,” he muttered as they all made they way out of the rubble.

“You’re an alchemist?” asked Freddie, fascinated.

“I’m not much of anything without my work,” grumbled the man. “Sorry, I’m not much used to company—I’m Kit.” He seemed to think the name enough of an introduction, but that suited the pair of fugitives from the capital.

“Felix.”

“Fred.”

“Felix. Fred. Thank you.  Nobody tends to pass this way unless I’ve asked them to come and make a delivery, which hasn’t been for…oh, eight months, at least. There’s a shorter path into Woodston I take on foot when I need to get in my own supplies, but that’s around the other side of the house.” Kit turned back to survey the still-smoking heap. “Well, just the other side of what is now a clearing,” he amended, pointing out the way. “If I did have to have the bad luck to have this damned bird about the place, I had just enough good fortune that you happened to be nearby.”

“We were on our way to Woodston,” offered Freddie. “Have you any friends there who could help you?”

“I…well, no. I have…associates,” said Kit. “I prefer to work in solitude. I thought the bird might be nice company as he doesn’t talk, but it turns out he’s a great deal more trouble than I anticipated.”

“I’ll say,” said Felix, now grimacing as he began to circle the wreckage of the house. “Is there anything to be salvaged, do you think? Or shall we all just continue on to Woodston?”

Kit paused to consider this, then nodded.

“There’s not much, but I did have a few things kept down cellar for safekeeping,” he admitted, heading back through the stones and broken wood to where the trapdoor was still flung open, lowering himself into the hole. There were a few distant thumps, a solitary smash, and some more annoyed mutterings, but a few minutes later Kit re-appeared with a small satchel which he slung over one shoulder.

“Is that all?” asked Freddie.

“For now,” said Kit with a nod, turning to conscientiously shut the trap-door once more. “Perhaps I’ll come back here and rebuild. It was a satisfactory spot.”

“You’re very calm for a man whose home and livelihood have just been destroyed,” observed Felix, who had gone to fetch the horse from the edge of the clearing.

Kit shrugged.

“It was only a house,” he said. “I can replace everything else, eventually. Everything of greatest importance, I always carry with me,” he said, tapping one filthy finger to his forehead and almost smiling…until he looked at Freddie, saw the raven, and his expression melted back into his seemingly-habitual mild scowl.

“Well, shall we?” said Freddie. “Lead the way to Woodston, Master Kit.”

“Please, just Kit,” said the alchemist.

“Would you not like to ride, your h—” Felix cut himself off with a cough. “Forgive me,” he rasped. “The smoke…” He cleared his throat and continued: “…your horse, would you not like to ride your horse?”

“I think we can give the horse a break, and walk part of the way,” said Freddie. “Particularly if Kit’s path saves us some time where the main road would not.”

The raven then elected to flap up and perch on the saddle, easily beyond Kit’s reach for the moment as they all set out on foot.

“Feathered nuisance you are…” growled Kit. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself!”

The bird let out a chirruping little call which almost sounded like a chuckle.

“They are very clever animals, are they not?” asked Freddie. “It’s as if he understands every word you say!”

“Oh, he’s smart enough, alright,” said Kit. “He wouldn’t be half so infuriating if he was stupid.”

“We might never have gone looking for you if he hadn’t shown us the way,” Freddie pointed out.

“In which case, I may find it in my heart to forgive him for his meddling in my laboratory!” said Kit, still glaring at the raven as they found the path which wound through the woods and along the lake-shore to the town. “ _Some day._ ”


End file.
